t-perdue - Hello Poetry

An apple lying two small divots from the base of a tree, I inherit inertia. The son of a son of a son of a son of a farmer - harvest, market, settle up, rest. Success is an even account. Await the herald of spring. Repeat. In youth I ran to knowledge like a sponge at a spill. Everything I wanted was in the course not at the goal. After thirteen years of trying to make Her happy, my cup was long past empty. A vacuum ******* in dregs discarded on a back room floor. After twenty years of trying to make Him happy, I float on a buoyancy that stymies the sunrise by flirting with sunset. Now past greenhorn salad days, a compass flutters. The poles deconstructed, magnets refute desire. Comrades say their differences make them Beautiful. I am Beautiful because I survived. If I am different, that requires an entirely new stanza. I rest this pole on my shoulder. Tied in an orange bandana : an apple, a sponge, a compass, a vacuum, a jar of buoyant air. I am Weary Willie setting course on open path.

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Jun 8, 2019

Jun 8, 2019 at 9:07 AM UTC

On Moving Forward

An apple lying two small divots from the base of a tree, I inherit inertia. The son of a son of a son of a son of a farmer - harvest, market, settle up, rest. Success is an even account. Await the herald of spring. Repeat. In youth I ran to knowledge like a sponge at a spill. Everything I wanted was in the course not at the goal. After thirteen years of trying to make Her happy, my cup was long past empty. A vacuum ******* in dregs discarded on a back room floor. After twenty years of trying to make Him happy, I float on a buoyancy that stymies the sunrise by flirting with sunset. Now past greenhorn salad days, a compass flutters. The poles deconstructed, magnets refute desire. Comrades say their differences make them Beautiful. I am Beautiful because I survived. If I am different, that requires an entirely new stanza. I rest this pole on my shoulder. Tied in an orange bandana : an apple, a sponge, a compass, a vacuum, a jar of buoyant air. I am Weary Willie setting course on open path.

42

PART I Mythical creatures White-tufted Branch-antlered or unicorn-horned Drove back the guilt-fortress A clearing of Open Forbade my translucent Excuse Where we might have Pointed And Counter-Pointed Government sycophants Or social-discoursed Impending collapse Instead I pointed out this silhouette Finger-tracing curves And feathered jags of edge Reading glasses emphasized my Now With Immediacy And somewhere at the root Tightly packed cells of potential Honesty Sealed by long-intended Inertia Stirred Vibrated Demanded You, with a watchful patience Circus-intrigued PART II At close, the clock struck A gong of True You returned To Your Wife I venture Back on the path Of routine Groping a functional Reset Possessed of magic/potential Or a vintage matchstick For the dread-moment When the fuse of Annihilate Presents like a slate Wiped clean I carry only a solace Potentiated by the grace Of your listen The healing salve Coating the grit Of my Askew Leading With time To opalescence

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Aug 27, 2018

Aug 27, 2018 at 7:32 PM UTC

Truth Telling Over Coffee

PART I Mythical creatures White-tufted Branch-antlered or unicorn-horned Drove back the guilt-fortress A clearing of Open Forbade my translucent Excuse Where we might have Pointed And Counter-Pointed Government sycophants Or social-discoursed Impending collapse Instead I pointed out this silhouette Finger-tracing curves And feathered jags of edge Reading glasses emphasized my Now With Immediacy And somewhere at the root Tightly packed cells of potential Honesty Sealed by long-intended Inertia Stirred Vibrated Demanded You, with a watchful patience Circus-intrigued PART II At close, the clock struck A gong of True You returned To Your Wife I venture Back on the path Of routine Groping a functional Reset Possessed of magic/potential Or a vintage matchstick For the dread-moment When the fuse of Annihilate Presents like a slate Wiped clean I carry only a solace Potentiated by the grace Of your listen The healing salve Coating the grit Of my Askew Leading With time To opalescence

53

From the deepest barrel of molded blue hurt, a kernel rests. Faith-based yearning my only thread. Pray... tether me, upend me. Open Love like a dissection. Tease out hormonal misdirection. Transmit static potential. Germinate the dormant to something feathered. Buoyant.

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Aug 23, 2018

Aug 23, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC

Some Days Tussle

From the deepest barrel of molded blue hurt, a kernel rests. Faith-based yearning my only thread. Pray... tether me, upend me. Open Love like a dissection. Tease out hormonal misdirection. Transmit static potential. Germinate the dormant to something feathered. Buoyant.

14

Nicotine jangled nerves reset to a normal rhythm. Grass dew cools my toes as gravel sharp earth returns a reality. Futility of turning to you dispels any rumor. Old habits.

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Aug 23, 2018

Aug 23, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC

Midnight Smoke

Nicotine jangled nerves reset to a normal rhythm. Grass dew cools my toes as gravel sharp earth returns a reality. Futility of turning to you dispels any rumor. Old habits.

10

The years turned into damp Mossy bricks Stacked in the humus of a dark corner Too recent to be light Too ancient to be dispensed No bricklayer hands ever near. I am too small Too weak, too thin, too white Too tall, too smooth, too angular Too effeminate, too self-concerned, too defensive Too loud, too smart, too bald, Too soft, too hard, too plastic. These slow healing wounds These beautiful scars Talismen of the Fear Jeweled remnants suturing Experiences. Wisdom. Gratitude. Epiphytic reminders of Compromise Become new design elements of a beautiful landscape Where acceptance is Embraced and Transmogrified. And in this place The dry husk-formed shell Relents under claw-like attack Releasing the ripe sweet nectar Whose wait was alchemic Whose time has come This succulent fruit Will deliver the LifeForce which brings End To Debauchery of Hope. And so… You are my Experiment. Will I be able to stand ***** On this platform rising from shadow Will I look you in the eye And when I do Will you see my true Heart Resting in the Lotus of my Hands. Rising. Aloft. And Beaming.

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Aug 22, 2018

Aug 22, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC

Part III : You Are My Experiment

The years turned into damp Mossy bricks Stacked in the humus of a dark corner Too recent to be light Too ancient to be dispensed No bricklayer hands ever near. I am too small Too weak, too thin, too white Too tall, too smooth, too angular Too effeminate, too self-concerned, too defensive Too loud, too smart, too bald, Too soft, too hard, too plastic. These slow healing wounds These beautiful scars Talismen of the Fear Jeweled remnants suturing Experiences. Wisdom. Gratitude. Epiphytic reminders of Compromise Become new design elements of a beautiful landscape Where acceptance is Embraced and Transmogrified. And in this place The dry husk-formed shell Relents under claw-like attack Releasing the ripe sweet nectar Whose wait was alchemic Whose time has come This succulent fruit Will deliver the LifeForce which brings End To Debauchery of Hope. And so… You are my Experiment. Will I be able to stand ***** On this platform rising from shadow Will I look you in the eye And when I do Will you see my true Heart Resting in the Lotus of my Hands. Rising. Aloft. And Beaming.

40

I’m in the bathroom Scrubbing out a small white plastic trash can Scratched on the outside Yellowed on the inside We’ve both been in this house For 28 years. Ani DiFranco is singing F*ck You and your untouchable face And I’m thinking about how often I’ve sung along in frustration and kinship Me and my uncanny skill Of making things appear As I think I wish them to be. I’ve thought so often That he held himself tauntingly close But folded arms Closed eyes And I, ungrateful wretch Unmitigated gall, all that. Conjuring the warmth of his palm To the tremble in my fingertips Who was hostage? Who was negotiator? Rinsing the last suds from the bottom I think that sallow dour aged yellow Is comfort. Is a sunrise.

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Aug 22, 2018

Aug 22, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC

The Can

I’m in the bathroom Scrubbing out a small white plastic trash can Scratched on the outside Yellowed on the inside We’ve both been in this house For 28 years. Ani DiFranco is singing F*ck You and your untouchable face And I’m thinking about how often I’ve sung along in frustration and kinship Me and my uncanny skill Of making things appear As I think I wish them to be. I’ve thought so often That he held himself tauntingly close But folded arms Closed eyes And I, ungrateful wretch Unmitigated gall, all that. Conjuring the warmth of his palm To the tremble in my fingertips Who was hostage? Who was negotiator? Rinsing the last suds from the bottom I think that sallow dour aged yellow Is comfort. Is a sunrise.

27